


In This World Where Change Alone Endures

by Fallingassbutt



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Les Mis AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingassbutt/pseuds/Fallingassbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern times AU based on Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables". Grantaire, Enjolras and Les Amis are students at the University of Birmingham. Enjolras organises a strike against the rise of tuition fees, but he gets a bit carried away. Grantaire is always ready to follow him to the ends of the earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowledge and Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Readers may encounter some ideologically sensitive material such as depression, alcoholism, and violence.  
> I will try to post a new chapter every week.

Grantaire stared at the notebook in front of him with a mix of challenge and ferocity.

For the hundredth time he re-read the title on the first page: “Knowledge and Reality- What is the world like, and how – if at all – do we come to know about it?”.

“Bullshit”, he thought.

“Dear Mr. Jones”- he scribbled – “As your many colorful scarves and your tartan jackets indicate, you have already figured out all the answers. So why don’t you and your pretentious clothes go on and quickly tell me how to live my life, so that I can finish this essay and get drunk?”.

He actually considered submitting those lines to the Philosophy professor for a second, but then he shook his head, rolled the page into a ball and thrust it into a bin where many other rumpled pages stood, covered in doodles and unfinished lines.

Grantaire sighed and gave up on trying to write; he had to consign the work in two days, but he figured out he could write down some lines that night.

Instead, he concentrated on what was happening a few feet away from his table, right in the middle of the UNI canteen.

Many tables had been moved and replaced by a chair and a young man was currently using the chair as a sort of podium; he was surrounded by a grapple of student, mainly composed of girls, and he was giving his improvised audience a speech.

Grantaire couldn’t quite catch all the words, but here and there he could tell a few sentences, which definitely sounded like: “…progress has no time to lose…” and “…we will pounce on the law as it did on us…”.

He smiled to himself; he had already heard the speech when it was being prepared and he knew it shouldn’t have taken that turn: it was only supposed to debate tuition fees and similar stuff. 

Enjolras obviously got a bit carried away.

“…Our bones will mark the freedom that they have so long sought!”. Maybe more than a bit.

Grantaire shoot a quick glance at Courfeyrac, who was sitting on his right: his friend was cheering loudly and clapping his hands at Enjolras’ words, throwing his head back and laughing at the most exaggerated sentences.

Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras again: he had just finished his speech and he had climbed down the chair; he now was politely and discreetly excusing himself from the flock of girls who where floundering around him, slowly making his way to Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s table.

Enjolras was a handsome young man. He was twenty-two, but he barely looked like a nineteen-year old.

His beautiful, curvy mouth was often forming silent words and, when he spoke, his thick lower lip always quivered a little with passion and disdain. His face was framed by a mass of ash-blonde, wavy hair, which was always perfect even though he hardly ever brushed it. 

Nonetheless, the feature Grantaire liked the most were Enjolras’ eyes. They had a breathtaking grey-blue color an they were bottomless, stormy but transparent like perfectly polished crystal. Sometimes, Grantaire could have sworn he could actually see a flame light up and burn intensely into the depths of them.

His personality seemed like the result of the centuries-old fight of irreconcilable forces: he was terrible and charming, passionate and chaste, a warrior and a saint, a devastating storm and a salvific rain.

Even though he was always surrounded by a consistent group of adoring girls and boys who wanted nothing but a small taste of his Grace, he harshly warded off every single suitor who was brave enough to approach him. According to him, equality, democracy, humanity, civilization, progress where his only lovers.

He saw the inequities and the pain of the world around him and he suffered, he craved change.

Grantaire was completely different from Enjolras both in looks and in personality. Although he definitely couldn’t be considered ugly, he possessed none of Enjolras’ angelic beauty.

He had a long, thin nose, messy black curls and leaf green eyes which always had a sarcastic and clever look when they were not veiled in the fog caused by cheap wine and beer.

Grantaire was fundamentally a skeptic: he decided to attend University only to get away from his tyrannical father and he only picked Politics randomly pointing on a brochure of the University of Birmingham. 

Progress, democracy, equality really meant nothing to him but interminable lectures and endless essays written by beardy, arrogant men. He only had one passion, one obsession, one fanaticism: Enjolras.

Enjolras was the only object of his love, he worshipped him and he was determined to follow him to the end of the earth. 

During his first months at Uni Grantaire, too afraid to approach his idol directly, had managed to make friends with all of Enjolras’ closest pals: it had not been a big endeavor, since they all were likeable and funny and Grantaire definitely enjoyed spending time with them, drinking at the pub together and discussing girls, University, life. 

Enjolras, on his account, despised Grantaire. He didn’t drive him away openly, but still he treated him like a parasite and he never concealed how disgusted he was by his lack of a spine.

This is the reason why Grantaire was not surprised when Enjolras, once he finally managed to escape his last fan, greeted Courfeyrac and asked him to join him to the courtyard, while he only quirked an eyebrow disdainfully in Grantaire’s general direction.

Despite the fact that he was quite used to Enjolras’ attitude towards him, however this did not dull the aching pain that it caused in his chest and the feeling of helplessness that tormented him.

So he hastily put his notebook into his gray backpack, picked the backpack up and he stormed out of the canteen, pushing many disgruntled students out of his way.

Then he ran all the way through the courtyards and he got to his apartment, where he grabbed a full bottle of vodka and threw himself on the worn out, leather couch.

He grabbed the hi-fi’s remote and he turned the stereo on.

“Love of mine/ Someday you will die/ But I'll be close behind/I'll follow you into the dark...”

Grantaire took a long sip of vodka and wiped from his left cheek an angry tear that had spilled from his eye. He passed out about half an hour later.

When he woke up the next morning, he found himself covered with a cotton blanket, a glass of water and a bottle of analgesics on the table in front of the couch. 


	2. The Hangover

Raindrops tapped gently on the apartment windows while a not-so-gentle wind shook the trees’ crowns and bent their branches, making them crash together and against the house’s façade. Grantaire snorted, daunted by the sound which echoed in his ears like a cavalry charge. He pulled the blanket over his head to protect his sensitive eyes from the faint light of that grey English morning and then he turned to face the sofa’s seatback, determined to fall asleep again. 

However, his dry throat was aching for water and a terrible headache made his temples pulse and his eyes hurt as if they were being stung by a million pins. So, with a mighty effort, he rolled onto his side and reached over the sofa towards the table to try and grab the water and the pills. Still terribly uncoordinated because of the gallons of alcohol circulating in his veins, he knocked over the bottle of analgesics and the glass of water, spilling it all over the table.

“Crap!”, he hissed in a crooked voice: he was now forced to leave his comfortable bedding.

It took him quite a long time only to manage to put his feet on the floor and stand up, then he finally moved towards the bathroom on unsteady legs, hitting every single pointy surface on his way.

Once in the bathroom, he opened the tap and he took many long sips of water, waiting for the sink to fill up. Then he put his face in the cold water directly and, after that, he immediately felt better: his thirst had been fulfilled and the headache was reduced to a dull pain.

He got out of the bathroom with drops of water spilt on his rumpled grey t–shirt and with his wet curls stuck to his forehead. 

“Take these pills: you look awful”. Enjolras emerged from the kitchen holding a glass full of water and the bottle of analgesics, an ironic look in his beautiful eyes and a mocking smirk on his lips. Grantaire whimpered in surprise. Suddenly, he felt the strong urge to barricade himself inside the bathroom. Instead, he moved closer to Enjolras and took the glass from his hand with a small nod of gratitude, his hands still shaking with surprise.

Grantaire looked around and spotted Enjolras’ laptop on the kitchen’s table, which surface was also covered in maps of Birmingham’s city centre, fliers and pencils. Enjolras had obviously been there all morning long, making plans and mapping out strategies for the student strike he had been planning for months.

“Means he was probably the one who put that blanked on me”, Grantaire thought. He blushed slightly and he smiled to himself. Enjolras gave Grantaire a quizzical look , noticing his weird behavior. Caught off-guard, Grantaire took two steps back, considering taking shelter in the bathroom for the second time. In his withdrawal, he found his left foot caught in the straps of his backpack, which he had thrown on the floor the previous afternoon.

The reminder of the essay landed on him out of the blue: it was Sunday and the work was due for Monday. Moreover, Mr. Jones had already threatened to throw him out of his class if he failed to meet a deadline again.

Grantaire could not afford failing Philosophy, unless he wanted to be thrown back into father’s arms and work with him at the family garage, soaked in dirt, oil and grease all day long.

“What’s wrong? Can I do something for you? Pour you some more vodka, maybe? Or do you only go with rum on Sundays?”. Enjolras said this words with more nonchalance than sarcasm, turning his back to Grantaire and moving towards the kitchen’s table to get back to his business.

Regardless of Grantaire’s adoration for Enjolras, his sarcastic attitude in this awful situation was enough to drive Grantaire mad. He ran after Enjolras, grabbed him from the back of his red t-shirt and spun him around. 

“I have twenty-four hours to write the hardest essay ever assigned to a student and I have no idea how to begin it. So, if you don’t wish to lose a member of you personal group of cheerleaders, please just fuck-off and let me think!”. 

Grantaire flaked out on the couch, he bowed his head and held it in his hands: he did not want Enjolras to see the small tears of anger and despair forming at the corners of his eyes.

Enjolras stayed motionless for a moment, still struck by the shock of the unexpected aggression. When he recovered, he quietly came to sit on the table beside the couch, right in front of Grantaire. He rested his chin on his left hand and stared at him, obviously waiting for him to finally look up and make eye-contact. 

After a few seconds of unbearable silence, Grantaire finally lifted his head. If Enjolras noticed his red, watery eyes, he didn’t say word.

Instead, he asked in a pensive voice: “What’s the title?”.

Grantaire replied him, making sure to emphasize every single word with as much exasperation as he could.

Enjolras hit Grantaire’s knee with a playful bump and he exclaimed “Billions of pages could be written on this topic and you can’t even start off with it?”.

Grantaire was furious: this time he had expected actual help from Enjolras, who had only mocked him again instead. “It’s easy to talk like that when you’re sitting at the top of the Olympus, isn’t it? You are an idealist, you are clever and you are disgustingly handsome: the world is a field of opportunities for you, it will always be. But some of us are not so lucky: we have to crawl our fucking way through life and the only thing we can do is stay quietly in the shadow of people like you, hoping we don’t get crushed! So forgive me I don’t feel exactly thrilled to write about the valley of dirt and shit that surrounds me!”. He was almost shouting, barely containing his rage.

But he could never be mad at Enjolras for long: he had already forgiven him while he was accusing him. Besides, once he met his blue eyes again, he found them full of regret and compassion.

“Look, I did not mean to offend you and I’m sorry. Will you still let me give you a hand?”, Enjolras asked him in an earnest voice. Grantaire nodded in response and Enjolras shifted to sit beside him on the sofa. He was now so close that some of his curls were brushing against Grantaire’s neck and Grantaire could actually smell his aftershave. He certainly would have enjoyed the situation more, if it hadn’t been for his apprehension, yet he felt a thrill running through his body; so he sat up straight and he turned to face Enjolras, who had just started to speak again, this time in a completely serious voice.

“You are very wrong if you think that I know everything about the world; I actually know very little about it and even the small things I take for granted no, they are constantly changing. Besides, since you mentioned how different are our points of view on reality, doesn’t it suggest you anything?”.

Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose, as he always did when he was reflecting deeply on something. Then he started to write furiously on his notebook, only pausing now and then to scratch his head and mutter seemingly nonsensical words. 

In less than two hours, he had already concluded the essay

In the meantime, the rain and the wind had turned into a proper storm and an unnatural darkness had fallen outside the apartment, but Grantaire barely noticed. He re-read his work with increasing astonishment: those lines where full of sensible observations, of complex reflections and of surprising wits: they definitely did not sound as if they had been written by a troubled nihilist with a strong passion for vodka.

He finished reading the conclusion (“Therefore, dear Prof. Jones, allow me to conclude with a quotation from the noted Russian philosopher, politician and revolutionary Lev Trotsky: -Everything is relative in this world where change alone endures-”) and he burst into a hearty laugh, exclaiming: “I have no clue how I wrote this, but it will sure get me a degree in bullshitting”.

Enjolras threw his hair back and joined Grantaire’s laugh. “See, I guess you can call me your Muse from now on!”.

Grantaire winced: in his exaltation he had completely forgotten about the deity sitting by his side. It also occurred to him that it was definitely the first time he heard the other man laugh. Even Enjolras’ smile was an extremely rare thing he only granted to his closest friends, but a proper laugh really was deserving of being noted in a history book.

He turned to face Enjolras and he was suddenly struck by the urge to kiss his neck, to put his lips on his throat and feel, taste, drink in the vibrations of that heavenly laugh. 

He was to full of relief, too drunk of Enjolras’ beauty to stop himself, so he actually started to lean in slightly. But, all of a sudden, he heard an explosion of laughs and shouts from outside the apartment door; somebody knocked into the door and tried to put the keys in the keyhole, missing it a couple of times.

Grantaire gasped and sat up straight, right when the lock was finally opened.

A girl and eight young men burst in the apartment, seven of them singing loudly and clapping their hands, mocking the rhythm of an Irish song: “Lovely girl won't you stay, won't you stay, stay with me/All my life I was blind, I was blind, now I see/Lovely girl won't you stay, won't you stay, stay with me!” 


	3. Les Amis de l'ABC

The guys started an improvised dance and, luckily, they were paying no attention to Enjolras and Grantaire. So Grantaire caught the opportunity to regain control of himself: he ran his fingers through his hair and he took a deep breath. 

He was actually glad they had arrived to stop him: he flinched at the thought alone of what the consequences could have been if he had kissed Enjolras.

Even though it was really hard to tell it when they were in such a state of euphoria, the eight boys who had just interrupted Grantaire’s frenzy where probably the most brilliant and promising students in the University. Together, they decided to call themselves “Friends of ABC”. 

“Friends of ABC” was also the name of an association of revolutionary French republican students who rose against the French king in June of 1832. Enjolras picked out the name but, when the other friends asked him about the outcome of the association’s rebellion, he bowed his head and he refused to answer.

One of the Friends, Combeferre, tired of singing and a bit sick from spinning around, came to sit at the kitchen’s table where Enjolras had been working all morning. Then he stood there, smiling warmly and almost fatherly at the others who were still fooling around.

Combeferre was Enjolras’ closest friend, as well as the second most influent member in the group. He had straw-colored hair and he always balanced a small pair of round glasses on the tip of his thin nose; his open smile and his honesty made him the ideal confident for all his friends.

Although he shared his best friend’s ideals and he wasn’t afraid of getting into a fight when the situation required it, Combeferre was much more reflective than Enjolras. He was more moderate than him too: while Enjolras’ idols where Che Guevara and Robespierre, Combeferre was a promoter of Gandhi’s and Martin Luther King’s non-violent protests. This political behavior gained him the nickname of “Peacemaker”, name that Enjolras pronounced with both fondness and disdain. 

Besides humanity and progress, books where his biggest passion: he covered the shelves, the walls and the floor of his bedroom with medicine books, with history books, with biographies, with cookery books, even with several big, dusty half-calves he found in the stock of a junk dealer in Oxford.

Grantaire looked around the room and he smiled to himself: leaning against the door, Jehan Prouvaire had just taken his pan-flute out of his pocket and he was playing a delicate love song, trying to bring more romantic tones to the crazy celebration. 

This was really typical of Jehan: after all, his main interests included wandering in primrose meadows, making flower crowns and fantasizing about the shapes of clouds. Jehan was clumsy, he blushed easily, he spoke in a flimsy voice, he constantly kept his eyes low. He was always in love with someone and, since he spoke Italian fluently and he could easily quote Dante Alighieri’s best love sonnets, he never lacked of lovers.

Jehan’s shyness initially led Enjolras and the others to think that he was weak and he wasn’t deserving of being admitted in the group, until one day, at the local pub, Jehan broke a bloke’s jaw because he was harassing a pretty red-headed girl. Nobody ever dared to talk or think about Jehan as flimsy and blushing ever since.

Feuilly grabbed the pan-flute, hid it behind his back and tried to get Jehan to join the dance and sing along. 

Feuilly was an orphan: he raised from the dirtiest slums of Birmingham, where he grew up, with the only help of state subsidies and his own hard work. To afford University, since the subsidies were not enough, he had to work in a small local factory of handmade fans five days a week. While Enjolras and the other Friends mainly focused their efforts on the UK’s progress and education, Feuilly’s dream was to spread the revolution all over the world and see the students of the least developed countries in the world rise.

While Jehan was chasing Feuilly around the room, Bahorel got on the table near the sofa and he started shouting the song at the top of his voice along with improvised tip-tap moves. 

Bahorel was the loudest in the group. He loved getting into fights and he was noisy, shameless, impetuous, but he was also exceptionally generous; he proudly wore bright-colored, old-fashioned vests and he was always spending more money than he could afford, thus he often had to borrow it from Combeferre. Unlike his friends, Bahorel was not routine-bound: he was constantly looking for new pubs to frequent and this made him an essential link between Enjolras’ group and other associations of students.

Similarly to Grantaire, Bahorel escaped from his parents, who wanted him to become a lawyer just like his father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather before. So he despised Law students intensely and he was at his happiest when he could get into a fight with one of them. 

Paradoxically, Bahorel’s best friend was a Law student. 

His name was Bossuet and his most distinctive trait was definitely his bad luck. Bossuet always made bets that he punctually lost, his girlfriends often betrayed him (with Bahorel himself more than once) and he was rapidly balding at the age of 21. However, he was the first to laugh at his own misfortune and he treated it like an old friend. 

Since he was always broke because of his unsuccessful bets, he could not afford to pay the rent and live with Enjolras and the other boys; some nights he slept on the sofa, but he mostly lived at Joly’s house where he could stay for free, since the rent was paid by Joly’s father, a renowned doctor. 

Joly was studying to become a surgeon and he also had the worst case of hypochondria Grantaire had ever seen: you could always see him flinching a bit every time he entered a crowded room, he kept one or two air purifiers in every single room of his house and every two minutes he cleaned his hands with a napkin soaked with disinfectant. 

Nevertheless, he was the most high-spirited in the group and his beautiful grey eyes, with their eternal worried expression, caused many dreamy sighs among the female students.

Courfeyrac, the man who was sitting next to Grantaire in the canteen the previous afternoon, lost his balance from spinning around too much and he fell on the couch near Enjolras. There was nothing much to say about Courfeyrac except that he was the most loyal, warm and funny friend Grantaire had ever had. Even though Courfeyrac did not have a single penny in his pockets, he was always bragging about the noble lineage of his great-grandfather, the baron of Courfeyrac. 

The person who was responsible for all the ado was Courfeyrac’s best friend, Marius. Grantaire did not know much about Marius, only some information he caught here and there when Marius was not sober enough to keep his own secrets.

Aside from Grantaire, Marius was probably the one Enjolras liked the less in the group. In fact, Marius did not join them for his political passion or because he was driven by high ideals, but only because “He enjoyed the company”, as Enjolras said in a bitter voice. Besides, Marius actually decided to attend Birmingham University only because he wanted to get as far away as possible from his grandfather. 

Just like Feuilly, Marius was an orphan: his mother died in childbirth, while his father, Colonel Georges Pontmercy, died during a mission in the Peace Corps. 

Marius spent his childhood with his maternal grandfather, Gustave Gillenormand, and they lived together happily in the richest neighborhood of Glasgow until one day they got into a terrible fight and Marius ran away from home. Grantaire highly suspected that the cause of the fight where Mr. Gillenormand’s opinions about Marius’ father.

Marius and his grandfather hadn’t spoken ever since, but Mr. Gillenormand kept sending his grandson letters with big stacks of pounds attached, that Marius punctually sent him back intact.

Marius was tall, he had wavy brown hair, green eyes and, Grantaire had to admit it, he was quite handsome. Many girls would have been more than glad to make him happy, but Marius did not see them: he was always with his head on the clouds, writing long poems about his beloved father and making sketches of his face. However, the way Courfeyrac kept winking at him clearly indicated that Mr. Marius Pontmercy had finally fallen in love.

Combeferre, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, Marius, Grantaire and Enjolras all lived together; except for Enjolras and Jehan, none of them where rich, but together they were able to afford a very nice and spacious apartment. It was set on two floors and it had been decorated by Jehan Prouvaire himself. The best thing about the apartment was definitely the huge open space at the ground floor, where they were celebrating at the time: it included a kitchen, a lounge and a study.

The only girl in the room was named Éponine. She was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thénardier, the owners of the local pub that the Friends always frequented, which was called “Waterloo’s tavern”. Not only the Thénardiers did not let their daughter attend any courses at University, but they also forced her to work at the pub as a bar-girl at night and as a kitchen hand in the morning. She met the boys at the pub and they easily became friends, as they were the only men who treated her with respect and also because she always nursed them, Bahorel especially, after their usual fights.

Éponine looked like she had grown up too fast, she was excessively thin, she had dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes too big for her lean face and she was hopelessly, helplessly in love with Marius.

Grantaire, being a great observer, was the only one who had noticed and knew about ‘Ponine’s infatuation. Since she could not talk about Marius to anybody else (the other boys in the company where not as reliable as Grantaire; moreover, if she had told her parents, they would have probably scolded her, since love takes time away from work), Grantaire was often Éponine’s confidant and, most importantly, her shoulder to cry on. The girl, on her account, was the only one who understood Grantaire’s feelings for Enjolras: she was able to interpret all of Grantaire’s silences and she was the only one who could comfort him when he ran into his room with tears in his eyes a bottle of rum in his hand.

One night, Éponine was in despair because Marius had not spoken nor looked at her all night; moreover, Enjolras had just reproached Grantaire for his lack of spine and Grantaire could not stop repeating “He despises me”; so Éponine took his face in her hands and kissed him deep to make him shut up.

That kiss tasted of tears, of grief, of pain: when it was over, they looked into each other’s eyes end they both found themselves wishing they were facing somebody else.

Grantaire glanced over at Éponine: she was leaning against the wall and she looked like she was about to cry. He had to do something to help her, so he asked: “Does the lucky girl have a name, Marius my friend?”.

“Cosette!”, all the boys shouted in unison, bursting in a sonorous laugh.

“Cosette”, whispered Marius in a dreamy voice.

Grantaire stood up and he went to take a bottle of wine and a glass from the kitchen’s cupboard; he poured himself a generous quantity of red nectar and then he raised the glass: “I’d like to propose a toast in honor of Mr. Marius Pontmercy, who still finds time to love, blush and sigh when outside a storm is raging and we are all about to strike and fight!”.

A heavy silence fell in the apartment: Enjolras had been quiet until that moment, maybe because he was a bit dazed by the chaos, but Grantaire’s words eventually shook him. He stood up and he walked towards Marius; then he grabbed him from his overcoat and whispered something in his ear in a low yet intimidating tone. 

Marius nodded and he turned his head, avoiding to make eye contact with Enjolras.

Then Enjolras turned to face the other men and he said: “Tomorrow is a crucial day for us: I need to have you all here at seven in the morning to give you some instructions. I recommend you get some rest”. From the menacing look on Enjolras’ face, everybody understood that he was not giving a suggestion, but an order; so the boys said goodbye to Joly and Bossuet and they all went upstairs, where their bedrooms where.

Only Marius stayed downstairs: he found a pencil and he ripped off a blank page from Grantaire’s notebook, which he left on the table near the sofa. He set at the kitchen’s table and he started to draw, stopping only now and then to sigh and glance at the moon outside the window, just like he did when he was thinking about his father.

However, this time he did not sketch the pensive and grave face of a military man, but the vague silhouette of a beautiful young woman. 


	4. When Our Ranks Begin to Form...

The next morning, Grantaire was woken up by the annoying beeping sound of his alarm clock. He fumbled to turn it off and, when he finally managed to stop the noise, he fell back on the bed. The pillow felt very pleasant and soft beneath his head and he briefly considered to subvert Enjolras’ orders. But then he imagined what could have been Enjolras’ reaction: the thought alone of his disappointed look and his endless hostile silences worked on him much better than the alarm clock had done. 

He sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He went to bathroom to wash his teeth and he looked at his hair in the mirror: it seemed as if a black hay bale was framing his face, so he tried to comb it with his fingers, but the fingers kept getting stuck. He gave up on trying to tame his curls and he glanced at his wristwatch: it was a quarter past seven. He knew he was late, but he supposed the other boys where late as well, since they had been dancing and singing until late night.

However, when he climbed down the stairs, still wearing a pair of grey sweat trousers and a yellow Kill-Bill t-shirt he used as a pajamas, he found out that all the other eight boys were already in the kitchen. They were all sitting around the table or leaning against the kitchen counter, each one with a sleepy expression on the face, and they were holding big mugs of coffee or tea. Only Enjolras was perfectly awake: he had already started to give orders and instructions in his authoritarian voice, standing firmly on his feet and slamming a punch on the table from time to time when he wanted to punctuate the most important sentences or when he felt that his friends’ attention was fading away.

He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a red t-shirt, which color made a beautiful contrast with his pale skin; his hair was lying softly on his left shoulder and Grantaire marveled that it seemed as if it was emanating a dim golden light.

His fantasies where abruptly interrupted by Enjolras himself; when he heard the sound of Grantaire’s cautious footsteps, he turned to face him and he said: “You are late. We weren’t expecting you anymore”. He then proceeded to ignore him. Grantaire was struck by his cold tone: he wondered for a brief moment where all the smiles and the kindness had gone, but then he realized he had been an idiot to think that something could have actually changed: he filed away Enjolras’ odd behavior of the previous night as a rare moment of compassion that wasn’t going to happen again anytime soon.

Grantaire came to stand quietly in a corner of the room and he focused on Enjolras’ voice. “Time has come for important changes, my friends: we can’t let the government push the people around any longer. We need to take action right now. Today, after class, it will be your duty to help me promote the strike”.

“Feuilly, you will talk to your fellow workers and you will try to put us in contact with as many trade unions as you can. I’m sure people in the working class care about the future of their children, so try and use this argument to persuade them.

“Jehan, you will speak to Art students and you, Bossuet, to Law students. Make sure you don’t leave space to daddy’s boys to contest you”.

“Bahorel, I printed out three-thousand fliers for you to hand out all around the town”.

“Marius and Courfeyrac, you will have to speak to the teachers. I overheard a few conversations between Mr. Jones and Mr. Hayes and it looks like they feel outraged too this time: all they need is a little push, a small encouragement and we’ll have them in our lines”.

Then he gestured for Combeferre to come closer to him and he whispered something into his ear, making sure nobody else could catch his words. Combeferre simply nodded; he took a long sip of coffee and he came back to sit on his chair with a pensive frown on his face. 

“That’s it, guys. Our meeting is over”, Enjolras finally announced.

Grantaire had been expecting his orders and he was perplexed; he got closer to Enjolras and he asked him: “What about me? I thought you needed as much help as possible…”.

“Considering you arrived late today and you have never shown much interest in what we do, I figured you wouldn’t want to take part to the protest. Besides, I don’t think there’s much you can do: you haven’t shown much cogency or will power since we have met”.

“Well, how can I prove you how much I’m worth if you don’t let me?” Grantaire answered in a whisper, but he actually felt like screaming and crying. He suspected Enjolras didn’t like him much, in fact he knew it, but hearing him speak out his disdain felt much worse: it felt like a cannon ball had just him in his chest, knocked him down and he wasn’t strong enough to lift it up and free himself.

“I’ll go and I’ll talk to the customers at the Tavern. I will convince them to take part to the strike. You’ll see”. 

Enjolras stared deeply into his eyes with an almost clinical look; the intensity of his gaze made Grantaire want to bow his head and avoid the scrutiny, but he understood it was important for him to hold the look. Finally, Enjolras nodded; then he turned away and he grabbed a chair. He sat down facing Combeferre and they immersed in deep conversation, only stopping time to time to mark some spots on the map of Birmingham that was still on the table.

The morning classes went by quite fast; Grantaire had his own little moment of glory when he consigned his essay to Mr. Jones: clearly, the teacher had not been expecting it and Grantaire loved to see the little arrogant grin on his face disappear when he presented him the paper. He spent the remaining time planning the speech he was going to pronounce at the pub: it was based on Enjolras’ words, which he luckily remembered very well.

That evening Grantaire opened the pub’s door with the firm intention of doing his job and making Enjolras proud. He said hello to Éponine, who only nodded in response: she was pouring a generous glass of whiskey to a middle-aged man with greasy hair and a poorly tailored suit and, in the meantime, she was trying to avoid to make eye-contact with a tattooed boor who was staring insistently at her breasts, slurring lame pick-up lines. 

Grantaire moved towards the big oak table in the middle of the room: it was surrounded by a large group of students and workmen with their girlfriends: some of them were singing, some were playing card games, two of them were arm-wrestling and all of them were drinking. He approached the crowd, determined to climb on a chair and pronounce the speech he had prepared in the morning. But, once he got there, a big muscled man with a diamond earring approached him, energetically hugging a nice-looking blonde girl with his left arm. “Grantaire!”, he shouted in a heavy Scouse accent, “We haven’t seen ye here for a while, me old friend! Sit down and have a bevy with Lisa and me!”.

“I can’t Jack, I…”.

“You what? It’s not an invitation, it’s an order. Come on, I’m paying this round!”.

Grantaire couldn’t resist, so he sighed and he said: “Just this round and then I…”

“Boss! ‘Ponine, bring us three pints!”

Éponine quickly filled three jugs and she brought them to Grantaire, Jack and his girlfriend. 

“Cheers”, Grantaire said, raising his jug. He took a draught of beer and he breathed deeply. He stared at the dark-gold, inviting liquid. “Just this round…”, he whispered again with little certainty.

Two hours later, the door of the Tavern swung open and Enjolras entered the room: he wanted to check Grantaire’s job. He stood against the door for while, trying to spot Grantaire in the sea of people, chairs and tables that packed the place. Eventually, he saw him: Grantaire was sitting at one of the tables, surrounded by a bunch of laughing men and women, and he was leaning his head on his left arm, only raising it from time to time to take a small sip of ale from his glass.

Enjolras came close to Grantaire. He grabbed him from the back of his shirt and he made him stand up, causing the chair to fall on the floor with a loud noise. He guided him towards the door that led to a back alley, pushing him with a hand behind his back. Grantaire still had the glass in his hand and he was trying his best not to spill the beer: “Easy, easy”, he kept whispering to Enjolras.

They reached the door: Enjolras opened it and quickly closed it behind them.

Grantaire barely had time to feel an unpleasant cold breeze on sweaty neck, when suddenly a sharp pain hit him on his right cheek: Enjolras had just punched him and the feral look in his eyes clearly indicated that he was going to hurt him more. Grantaire backed away, scared, but he was too drunk and unsteady to run away: his clumsy feet got caught up in something and he fell on the cold cement of the ground.

The glass in his right hand broke: some pieces scattered on the ground, but a bigger one cut right through his hand, tearing it from the wrist to the base of the index finger. The wound burned terribly and Grantaire turned onto his side to grab his wrist and try and stop the bleeding.

Enjolras grabbed him from his shirt and hauled him up, but he did not help him. Instead, he punched him once again, this time on the left side of his face, near his mouth. Grantaire’s upper lip started to bleed, but he did nothing: he did not attempt to escape again, nor he tried to react to the blows

Enjolras pushed him again, but Grantaire simply bowed his head.

“For fuck’s sake, do something!”, Enjolras shouted.

He fisted his hands into Grantaire’s shirt and Grantaire shut his eyes, expecting to be hit again, when he suddenly felt Enjolras’ lips closing seamlessly onto his.

Enjolras immediately broke the kiss, a shocked look on his face. Grantaire leaned closer, opening his mouth slightly as an encouragement. Enjolras did not hesitate: he closed the space between their lips and he started to kiss Grantaire fiercely. He licked at his teeth briefly, then into of his mouth, rolling their tongues together; he caught Grantaire’s upper lip with his own lips and then he bit his under lip almost too hard, catching it between his perfect teeth and pulling it slowly. In the meantime, he guided Grantaire with his back against the wall and Grantaire just let him, dazed by the alcohol and by the rush of sensations that had just hit him. 

Only when they were leaning against one of the alley’s walls and their chests and their hips were flush, Grantaire finally started to react. He skirted Enjolras’ red t-shirt and he reached to touch his skin. He stroked his muscled and lean abdomen softly, then the guided his own hand down slowly to caress his jutting hipbones, at last eliciting a breathy moan from Enjolras. With the other hand, he brushed Enjolras’ left cheek, spreading a bit of his own blood that had gotten on the other man’s face. Then, the kiss became much slower: Enjolras started to kiss Grantaire with deeper thrusts of his tongue and he let Grantaire lead ever so often, allowing him to suck gently on his tongue and lick at the tender underside of his upper lip. 

Grantaire’s blood made the kiss taste coppery, but Enjolras tasted like warmth and honey and sadness. He felt Enjolras starting to tremble and he suddenly lost the warm and soft feeling of his lips. Grantaire sighed sadly, but those lips were suddenly back on his neck: Enjolras started to trace an imaginary pattern, licking him and kissing him from the base of his neck to the lower part of his chin. A broken moan escaped Grantaire’s lips: Enjolras’ hands had found his trousers and they were making quick work of his belt.

All of a sudden, the pub’s door swung open: Jack and his girlfriend came out of the Tavern laughing and singing. They stopped to kiss for a moment: Enjolras and Grantaire froze, afraid they were going to get caught. The man and the woman broke the kiss and ran out of the alley holding hands. Grantaire sighed with relief and he moved his hand to hook it into Enjolras’ soft hair, but the other man had disappeared: Grantaire saw his shadow leaving the dark back alley.

Grantaire turned around and he started punching the wall furiously: tears were streaming down his face and his right hand kept bleeding. He tried to wipe his face, but he only managed to dirty it with blood. Desperate, he stumbled towards the pub’s door. Once he got inside, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the unbearable noise and by the hot hair that was soaked with the smell of alcohol and sweat.

From an indistinct corner of the place, he hard Éponine screaming: “Grantaire, oh God!”, but she sounded distant and her words where indistinct, as if he was hearing her from underwater. 

The last thing he felt before he fainted was Éponine’s arm struggling to hold him up and her bushy hair rubbing against his chin. 


End file.
